


Couldn't Be Beat

by ShowMeAHero



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Thanksgiving, chosen family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 13:50:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5293517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since they're stuck in a safe house in the middle of nowhere at the end of November anyways, Napoleon figures he'll introduce another good old-fashioned American tradition to Illya and Gaby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Couldn't Be Beat

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from ["Alice's Restaurant" by Arlo Guthrie](http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=m57gzA2JCcM).

Illya stared at Napoleon from the kitchen table, watching as he stuck his head almost entirely in the tiny oven of their safe house (more a log cabin, really) in the furthest reaches of Iceland. Gaby was perched on the counter, swinging her legs and observing Napoleon, as well.

“You remember we are not American, yes?” Gaby pointed out, not for the first time. Napoleon went back to rolling his bread dough, pushing his hair back out of his face before brushing the flour off his hands onto his apron. Gaby clicked her tongue, and Napoleon moved obligingly closer so she could wipe the flour off of his cheek. There was still a white smudge left high on his cheekbone, dusting onto his nose. Illya forcefully looked away.

“How can I forget?” Napoleon replied dryly. “I, however, am American, and, as such, I celebrate Thanksgiving.” He motioned to the tiny cabin they were stuck in, snow falling powerfully outside the windows. “Since we’re all here together, and the mission is on hold for the time being, you may as well celebrate with me.”

“This is absurd,” Illya muttered. “We should do useful things. Clean guns. Plan attacks. Go over paperwork.”

“ _Or,_ ” Napoleon countered, “we can stop being negative, and start enjoying my cooking.” He stuck out a wooden spoon loaded with stuffing and held it up to Illya’s face. “Try it.”

“No.”

“I need a taste tester.”

“ _No._ ”

“ _Peril._ ”

“Fine,” Illya snarled. He let Napoleon slip stuffing into his mouth. Napoleon raised an eyebrow expectantly; Gaby leaned forward to better see Illya’s face. “Is fine.”

“Thank you very much, Peril, for that glowing commendation.” Napoleon returned to the dinky oven. “Now, don’t let my lack of food options here sour your opinion of American Thanksgiving. Rest assured that I will give you two a proper Thanksgiving when I have the opportunity.” He bent down again to examine whatever he had placed in the oven. “I did the best with what I had.”

Napoleon stuck his oven mitts on and pulled the pot out of the oven. He settled it on a dishcloth on the counter and set the bread rolls in the oven before closing it up again. He set the timer on the counter. Gaby leaned over the pot.

“It is a bird,” Gaby stated, glancing up at Napoleon. “You were acting as though it were gold.”

“It may as well be,” Napoleon replied. He removed the aluminum foil and presented the bird to them. “Turkey on Thanksgiving is essential.”

“This is goose,” Illya commented. Napoleon pulled one oven mitt off and sliced a little piece of meat off with his pocketknife.

“It is a goose, well spotted,” Napoleon answered. He tasted the meat and grinned. “No turkeys around here.”

“Is this what you shot outside earlier?” Gaby asked, eyeing the roasted bird. Napoleon cut off two more small pieces with his pocketknife. He held one out to Gaby, who ate it from his hand, smiling.

“It is,” Napoleon said. “Had to do something. Thanksgiving just isn’t the same if you don’t have a bird.” He held out the other piece of goose to Illya, who took it from his hand and ate it himself.

“Is fine,” Illya repeated. Gaby patted Napoleon’s cheek.

“It’s delicious, Napoleon,” Gaby assured him. Napoleon grinned at her, put the foil back on the turkey, and pulled the hot pot of potatoes off the oven so he could mash them.

“Peril, if you wouldn’t mind setting the table,” Napoleon said, “I’m nearly done. Gaby, you might dig up the wine we saw in the cellar earlier?”

“Of course,” Gaby replied, hopping down to the kitchen floor. She slid out in her stocking feet, bundled in three sweaters, two of which did not belong to her, and one of those hung down to her knees like a dress.

“I saw dishes and silverware in that cabinet,” Napoleon informed Illya, pointing up at the cabinet diagonal to his right. He poured the potato chunks into a bowl and set to mashing them up as Illya stood and started digging out the cutlery and plates. Napoleon turned just as Illya turned, and they found themselves chest-to-chest.

“Well, hello,” Napoleon said, voice quiet and deep. Illya glanced up at the door. Napoleon sighed lightly. “ _Relax._ I am actually fairly certain she already knows.”

“You do not know for certain-”

“I’m fairly certain,” Napoleon interrupted, “and, even if I wasn’t, you know she would have no problem with this.”

Illya looked up at the door again before turning back to Napoleon. Napoleon leaned up hopefully, stretching up onto the balls of his feet, and Illya connected with him halfway, bending to meet the kiss. The plate he held in his hands was crushed between them as Napoleon dropped his other oven mitt and his pocketknife in order to wind his hands in Illya’s hair. He pressed closer to Illya, lining them up together, bowing under Illya’s larger body, and Illya snapped the plate in half. Napoleon jerked back, startled, then burst back into surprised laughter.

“Peril,” Napoleon managed, still laughing, as Illya stared in disbelief at the plate pieces still held in his large hands. “I can’t- Do I really get you so-”

“Shut it, Cowboy,” Illya snapped. Napoleon crouched to pick up the pieces that had fallen to the floor. Illya hesitated, then knelt to help.

“What did you do, Napoleon?” Gaby asked as she returned, stepping carefully past them to set the wine on the table.

“Why do you assume I did something?” Napoleon asked, collecting all the pieces in his apron and dumping them into the garbage.

“Because you have always done something,” Gaby answered. Napoleon returned to mashing the potatoes while Illya got non-broken dishware and got back to setting the table. Gaby dug through the drawers for a corkscrew; upon finding none, Illya used one large hand to pop the cork out himself. Napoleon put the finished dishes and bowls all down on the small kitchen table before setting the goose down in front of his own setting.

“In America,” he began, and Gaby leaned back, smiling, while Illya watched him attentively, “we celebrate Thanksgiving for some reason that, quite frankly, makes no sense, but is actually an excuse to eat a lot of food and be thankful for what we have.” He lifted the hunting knife he had found and set to slicing the goose. “How about we all say what we’re thankful for?”

“I will start,” Gaby said, settling her elbows on the table and leaning forward. “I am thankful for you two.”

“Funny,” Napoleon said, putting a few slices of goose on her plate, “I was going to say the same thing.”

“I am also thankful for you,” Illya added. “The both of you.”

“You warm my heart, Peril.” Napoleon leaned over to put slices of goose on his plate. “Help yourselves. I apologize that there isn’t more, but what we did have, I made sure it was the best.”

Napoleon removed his apron, draping it over the back of his chair before taking his seat. The three of them ate the meal in shared content silence and comfortable conversation. Napoleon unveiled a pie made of sweet berries he had found preserved in one of the cabinets. Napoleon washed the dishes after while Illya dried and Gaby returned the dishes to their places in the kitchen. Nighttime found them in the small front room of the cabin, gathered around the fire crackling in the fireplace, which Illya poked every now and then.

Illya leaned back against the sofa, Napoleon next to him, Gaby resting against Napoleon’s chest, half-asleep and wine-heavy. Illya and Napoleon were playing a half-hearted game of chess on the low coffee table, but Napoleon had mostly abandoned it. Illya still pushed a piece around every now and then.

“She should go to bed,” Illya commented into the silence, and Napoleon nodded, shifting to slide his arms around her. “I can-”

“I can take her, don’t you worry,” Napoleon said, and heaved Gaby and himself up off the sofa. Gaby turned her face into the soft material of his sweater stretched across his chest. “Just because I’m not a giant beast-man doesn’t mean I’m not strong enough to lift a doll.”

Illya grunted at him, and Napoleon left, taking Gaby to the small bedroom with one full bed and one twin. He hesitated, then gave her the twin, tucking the covers up and around her tightly. He lit the fireplace in that room and left her there to sleep. Illya had packed up the chess game by the time Napoleon returned; he was now lounging across the sofa, firelight flickering off his face, flames crackling in the fireplace.

“All tucked in,” Napoleon informed him, voice low and unwilling to break the comfortable quiet. “Happy and asleep.”

“Good,” Illya replied. Napoleon returned to his spot next to Illya on the sofa, stretching out and settling in against his side. Illya let one arm fall along his side, hand landing hot and massive near Napoleon’s right hip, his thumb tracing circles around the knob of bone. Napoleon hummed thoughtfully. He turned his attention to the snow still falling outside.

“Did you enjoy Thanksgiving?” Napoleon asked, adjusting his head against Illya’s chest. Illya’s chin pressed sharply into the crown of his head for a moment before he shifted to press his lips to Napoleon’s hair.

“Is better than most American things you show us,” Illya allowed. Napoleon smacked his chest and yawned. Illya kissed his temple. Napoleon settled in further, letting his eyes drift shut, comfortable and happy. Illya rested his cheek against the top of Napoleon’s head, watching the fire blazing in the fireplace.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Thanksgiving!
> 
> You can follow me on Twitter at [@nicoIodeon](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon) or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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